Not long after I published that post, I started getting comments/tweets from people suggesting that, hey, that whole “barbed wire ripped my skin open” thing? Might want to get that looked at, you know? On account of the RISK OF TETANUS from these things?
Naturally, I reacted to this news in exactly the way you’d expect: I freaked the hell out. Then I emailed my mum.
“Wah!” I said. “Am dying! Have tetanus! Wah!”
“Not dying,” said my mum. “Just over-reacting.”
Terry agreed. But I was not placated, and after some more whining on my part, Terry finally cracked and suggested I call NHS 24, which, for the benefit of those of you who don’t live in Scotland, is a 24-hour advice line which the NHS started up a few years ago in order to stop people like me rocking up to their doctor’s surgery with a tiny scratch on their foot.
By the time NHS 24 called me back, of course, I had convinced myself that this was exactly what I was doing: making a drama out of absolutely nothing. Because, let’s face it, it wouldn’t be the first time, would it? I had also convinced myself I would probably be fined for wasting NHS time or something, so when the lovely lady whose job it was to “handle” me called, I decided to try and downplay things.
“Tiny scratch!” I said, nonchalantly. “Barely visible! Nothing to see here, folks! Will move along now, thanks!”
“Nah,” said the lovely lady. “Tetanus. Get injection. Or possibly die.”
(*Note: not what she actually said.)
That was how I came to find myself, not forty minutes later, sitting in the waiting room at the doctor’s surgery, with no makeup, hastily dried hair, and a “tween” boy next to me blasting music out of the TINNY SPEAKERS of a mobile phone.
(Note: one day when I rule the world I will gather up all the tinny speakers and I will DESTROY them. And don’t think I won’t. I am actually thinking of adding an additional category to this blog, which I will call “Times Teenagers With Tinny Speakers Have Really Annoyed Me”, because it’s getting to the point where I can’t go anywhere – NOT ANYWHERE – without it happening. Anyway.)
Time passed, like… a really slow thing, passing. But finally I was ushered in to see the Lovely Nurse, who, seriously, was so lovely I wanted to bring her home with me. A lengthy debate then ensued between Lovely Nurse and Disembodied Voice Woman From The Next Room on the subject of what the hell to do with me. You see, they weren’t at all sure I needed to be immunised against tetanus. I’d been immunised before, but that was in 1991. Did I need to be immunised again? Lovely Nurse thought not. Disembodied Voice Woman thought maybe yes. Eventually they decided that, what the hell, I was there, and they were there, and all of the painful needles were there, so hey, let’s have an immunisin’, y’all!
“Tetanus lives in the soil, after all,” said Disembodied Voice Woman. “Better to be safe than sorry.”
So it was on. But it was to be a triple whammy! Not only was I to be immunised against tetanus, I was also to be immunised against polio and diphtheria. “Because they all come in one injection now,” said Lovely Nurse. So, basically, it’s like Diseases ‘R’ Us in my bloodstream right now. Great!
“Before I do this,” she said, rolling up my sleeve, “I have to tell you something about how the injection could possibly react with you. If, say, your throat suddenly starts to close up, and you feel a bit…” – she raised her hands to her throat and pantomimed someone choking to death, slowly and painfully - “don’t come back here, OK? Dial 999. If, on the other hand, you just feel like a horse has kicked you in the arm, that’s normal. Just take some painkillers.”
My eyes widened in horror. “I’m a hypochondriac, by the way,” I said. “I think I can feel my throat closing up now.”
But she didn’t listen, and instead she held me down and injected me. It was a bit like being in a scene from 24, in which Jack Bauer goes all crazy-eyed and says, “Tell me where the bombs are, or I will immunise you against potentially deadly diseases!” Only not really, obviously, because, like I said, that nurse? Was lovely.
I still spent the next few hours thinking my throat was closing up, and I was choking to death, though.
EDIT: Terry has just reminded me that the child at the doctor’s was, in fact, listening to his mobile phone through tinny earbuds, not tinny speakers. But they may as well have been speakers, the music was THAT LOUD.
Hi, I'm Amber. I'm a full-time fashion/shoe blogger from the UK, and this is the story of my life, my clothes, and the International Man of Mystery Next Door. You can read more from me at my other blogs, The Fashion Police and Shoeperwoman.
On Sunday, we decided to take the dog for a walk around Linlithgow Loch. Terry has done this walk before: it’s short, and there’s a proper footpath, so I figured I’d be OK in these:
You see the sticking plaster on the side of my foot? More about that later. For now, just know that Terry didn’t seem to see anything wrong with my footwear either, and so off we went.
Halfway to Linlithgow, though, Terry pulled over to the side of the road. “Hey,” he said. “Let’s not go to Linlithgow Loch. Let’s just climb that instead!”
“That” was Binny Craig. Why yes, it WAS kind of steep! And what’s that? Stinging nettles, you say? All over the ground? Meaning that by the time I reached the top (crawling on my hands and knees, natch), my feet were a red, swollen mess? Yes, that too. Also, there were teenagers up there. They were playing music through those FREAKING tinny speakers kids always have with them now, so even way the hell out in the peaceful, quiet countryside, you’re forced to listen to someone else’s music. This made me want to throw them all over the side of the hill, but unfortunately for me I’m terrified of teenagers, so I didn’t. Also, Rubin had apparently set aside that special time to be an ass, and while I was crawling on my hands and knees up the slope, he was trying to crawl under my belly. WHY?
Hi, I'm Amber. I'm a full-time fashion/shoe blogger from the UK, and this is the story of my life, my clothes, and the International Man of Mystery Next Door. You can read more from me at my other blogs, The Fashion Police and Shoeperwoman.
A few weeks ago, I decided – pretty much on a whim – to start tracing my family tree. I think, like most people who do this, I was secretly hoping I’d find out I was directly descended from Cleopatra or something, although, as it turns out, that would be pretty difficult because, with the exception of one adventurous branch of the family who emigrated to the States in the 19th century, only to return ten years later (possibly thrown out?), it would seem my ancestors have spent hundreds of years diligently mining coal all over Scotland, except for a few renegade souls, who mined clay instead. I’d imagine it was a bit like living inside a DH Lawrence novel, only grittier, and more Scottish.
My ancestors also appear to have cunningly avoided doing anything that might have drawn attention to themselves throughout their lives, which makes them a little harder to trace. I didn’t read all of those Famous Five books as a child for nothing, though, so I have persevered, and one thing I have managed to find out (mostly because it was, er, already known to my parents) is that my maternal great-grandparents, and their parents before them, lived in Helensburgh, which is a little town on the Clyde, in the west of Scotland.
Anyway, this Sunday was Easter, obviously, but it was better known in our family by the much more important title of “My Mum’s Birthday”, so, to celebrate, my dad thought it would be a nice idea to take my mum “back to her roots”, so to speak, and take a little drive to Helensburgh. And because Terry and I like to hang around like a bad smell all the time, we went too. Look, here’s me and my mum having a whale of a time in the local cemetery! Happy Easter!
Helensburgh cemetery
Honestly, if there’s a better way to celebrate your mother’s birthday than by taking her to a graveyard, I don’t know what it is. Happy birthday, mum!
Unfortunately, our ancestors continued to be elusive, and we didn’t manage to find any of their graves – we think they’re probably unmarked, or marked by a tree or something – so we drew a blank there. We did, however, have a few addresses we knew some of them had lived in, and we managed to find those. Here’s me, Terry and Rubin looking slightly suspicious as we loiter outside the building my great-grandfather once lived in:
West Princes Street
Note: he was not a dentist. And actually, despite what I said above, these Helensburgh ancestors weren’t coal miners either, or even clay miners. No, my great-grandad was a plasterer, which I would imagine was quite daring of him at the time. We visited a couple of other streets we knew the family had lived on, but although most of the rest of the streets were still intact, and dated back to the late nineteeth/early twentieth century, the buildings the early Forever Ambers had lived in had been knocked down. We’re assuming this had nothing to do with our family, but you never really know…
Anyway, because nothing works up a good appetite quite like poking around graveyards, we retired to the waterfront to eat ice cream and bags of greasy chips. Here are the disembodied heads of me and my parents floating above a host of golden daffodils:
Daffodils: host of
I have my eyes closed because, seriously, you have no idea how many photos I have managed to ruin by doing that. It’s like some freaky skill I have, to always know the exact moment the shutter will close, and to close my eyes in sympathy with it. Here’s a rare shot of me with my eyes open, just after lunch:
moi
I like to think my ancient ancestors once stood on this same spot, gazing pensively out over the Clyde and thinking deep thoughts. Sadly for them, though, they were probably too busy huddling together for warmth or weaving rough sweaters out of coal, or whatever people did in those days, to have much time for pensive staring. Which was probably a good thing, really, because look where Pensive Staring has got me?
After that, we drove along the Clyde to Loch Long, which is a loch, and is long:
Loch Long: both long and loch-like
Loch Long has no associations with my ancestors, as far as I know, but my uncle did almost catch his death of cold once in Arrochar, on its banks, so it sort of counts.
Then we went to Loch Lomond, which, again, has absolutely nothing to do with our family, but which is just nice. Its banks were looking suitably bonny, I thought:
"Mountains, Gandalf, mountains!" (for Erin)
And then we came home. So, in conclusion, we didn’t find out too much about my ancestors, but a good day was had by all:
Hi, I'm Amber. I'm a full-time fashion/shoe blogger from the UK, and this is the story of my life, my clothes, and the International Man of Mystery Next Door. You can read more from me at my other blogs, The Fashion Police and Shoeperwoman.
Yesterday, to my very great surprise, there was clearly some kind of disturbance in the Force, and the weather changed from “Unbelieveably, heart-rendingly awful” to an approximation of a pleasant spring day. That’s about as good as it gets in Scotland, so naturally we all (“we all” being my parents, Terry, the dog and I) jumped into the car and headed to the beach.
The beach we went to was at North Berwick, which,as some of you know, has the distinction of being my Favourite Place in the Whole of Scotland. It’s a pretty little seaside town, with lots of little restaurants and bars, and oh, a great big old volcanic plug, called Berwick Law. Here is a picture of Berwick Law (not taken by me, I hasted to add):
Here is a picture of me, Terry and Rubin on the very top of Berwick Law, which is steeper than it looks, let me tell you:
And here is a short video of me falling flat on my ass on the way back down:
Notice the way my family all come rushing to my aid… they clearly weren’t too concerned, because obviously I do this kind of thing A LOT. The long pause after I land was caused partly by my reluctance to accept my own clumsiness, and partly by my quiet conviction that I had broken my right wrist. Which I hadn’t, luckily.
Just a few minutes after this I almost fell again, the result being that my parents had to take an arm each, and half-carry me down the hill, like Amy Winehouse being escorted out of a nightclub. As my dad said, people were probably looking at us thinking, “Tut, tut, drunk in the middle of the day!” This time, though, my complete inability to walk unaided was caused by my shoes, which my dad described as “ridiculous” and I described as “the only flat shoes I own, what do you expect me to wear?” So, yes, fun for all the family! And ridiculous shoes = the only kind you’ll ever need…
Actually, falling-on-ass aside, we had an excellent day, and I have spent most of my time since we got back looking at property prices in North Berwick on the internet, because it’s one of the few places in Scotland I can actually imagine myself being happy to live in. It’s only 30 minutes from Edinburgh by train, and I’ve always wanted to live by the sea, but unfortunately so do a lot of other people, as property is really expensive there, and as things stand, Terry and I could possibly stretch to a one bedroom flat, but only if we give up food and send Rubin out to work. Still, it’s a more realistic dream than my “cross my fingers and hope the American government will let me live in Florida” one, so I’m going to continue to persue it.
Hi, I'm Amber. I'm a full-time fashion/shoe blogger from the UK, and this is the story of my life, my clothes, and the International Man of Mystery Next Door. You can read more from me at my other blogs, The Fashion Police and Shoeperwoman.
So, today was the day Terry and I had set aside to try to walk 12 miles in one day.
“Hey! I know! Let’s try and walk 12 miles in one day!” said Terry.
“You know? That sounds kinda crap,” said I. “It’s like – it’ll be rubbish? And also: we won’t even enjoy it.”
“Well, we’re not supposed to enjoy it,” said Terry, proving in one fell swoop that our marriage? Is doomed. “We’ll do it just so we can say we did it!”
There was one big problem, though, with Terry’s plan. I mean, other than the fact that he wanted to walk 12 miles in one day, obviously. The problem? Well, there’s nothing I hate more than being badly dressed. This is unfortunate, because I? Am almost always badly dressed. I am never more badly dressed, though, than when I go walking in the countryside, and the reason for this is – stiletto heels. See, I love ‘em. I am almost never without a good pair of 4 inch heels. For the most part, this predilection for 4 inch heels has served me well in life. When I go walking in the woods, though? Not so much, really. In fact, when I go walking in the woods, even I am forced to concede that stiletto heels are not really the best choice of footwear. (Don’t think I haven’t tried though, because I totally have. I’m no quitter, me). So I wear trainers. GOD. I know! I hate trainers, even more so because all of my jeans are cut for someone four inches taller than I am, so when I wear my jeans, I’m forced to roll ‘em up, like some crazy bag lady. I totally hate this, but hey! We were going for a walk in the woods, and desperate times called for desperate measures.
“I know!” I thought last night, as we having dinner with my parents. “I will get my old riding boots out of my dad’s garage and wear them with my skinny jeans! I will be both stylish and dry! And also: when people see me, they will assume I am some horsey girl, on her way to ride some horse, in the country!” This last thought quite appealed as I was one of those kids who, up until the age of sixteen thirteen, had a bedroom papered with pictures of ponies, and rosettes. (OK, I had two rosettes, but I won them fair and square, OK?)
“Dad, when you get a minute, could you get my riding boots out of the garage?” I said.
“Well, it’ll take me about seventeen hours to find them,” grumbled my dad, who has not only carpeted his garage, but has also used it store everything he has ever owned IN HIS ENTIRE LIFE, plus everything my mum and I have ever tried to throw out. Channel 4 will probably try to make a documentary about him soon. Despite this, he was back in under 5 minutes (he runs a tight ship, my dad) with the most filthy, disgusting pair of riding boots I have ever seen in my life, replete with ten-year-old horse dung and mud. So dad? If you’re reading this? I totally see now why you always told me to clean my riding boots before I put them away. I see that now. You win.
Anyway, this morning we got up early, I donned the skinny jeans and the skanky riding boots, and off we went.
This was the first stage of our walk. Isn’t it pretty? Say it is pretty. This part of the woods always makes me think of Lord of the Rings, except there are no hobbits, no elves, no orcs, no wizards, and, actually? It’s not really like Lord of the Rings at all, is it?
The next part of our walk, complete with Terry and Rubin.
(Note: we did not make Rubin walk 12 miles. We are stupid people, but we are not BAD people, y’know?)
That sheep in the middle? Totally stared at me THE WHOLE TIME we were walking past it. WHY?
The sky was all dramatic.
And there were some trees.
And a field.
Also: a bridge
And some more freakin’ sheep. WHY?
In my skinny jeans and riding boots combo, this horse thought I was ready to just jump on his back and ride into the sunset…
So, that was our walk. On the second leg of it, I noticed that all the people we passed would nod and smile and Terry and then completely blank me. At first I was totally offended by this (I mean, OK, I looked like crap, but even so, I don’t think I deserved to be shunned by society), and then I realised that, although the sun had long since set, I was still wearing my sunglasses, so they probably thought I was BLIND or something. GOD, people are rude to the blind, aren’t they? (And also to the badly dressed, I fear).
Anyway, seeing as, according to Terry, the whole point of our walk was to allow us to say we did it, I would just like to say: people, we did it. We walked 12 miles in one day. And I walked 12 miles in riding boots, skinny jeans and sunglasses. GOD. Never do that, OK? Only stupid people do that. Still, we seen some nice sheep…
Hi, I'm Amber. I'm a full-time fashion/shoe blogger from the UK, and this is the story of my life, my clothes, and the International Man of Mystery Next Door. You can read more from me at my other blogs, The Fashion Police and Shoeperwoman.
